They’d opened the main double doors for us, rather than the side entrances that were normally in use for visiting tourists, and as we reached the threshold, all I could see was a large central aisle gaping in front of me. Gripping Laurel’s hand, I forced myself to look up and smile with thanks for everyone coming to honour Beth, but just as outside, I didn’t register individual faces in among the congregation. It was a blur of bodies. The first sounds of ‘Morning has Broken’ began to swell around us, and I knew they were carrying her down behind me, but as I took my place in the front pew, and suddenly there the coffin was, just feet away from me, the shock was still unbearable.
I stared at it, numb with horror. She had held up her arms to me, to hold her when I was leaving in a rush to go and speak to Simon, and I didn’t hug her. I didn’t hug her. WHY didn’t I hug her?
God loves your little girl.
I felt Laurel let go of my hand so that Dad could come and stand on one side of me, and Ben on the other. Still I stared at the coffin.
Ben looked sideways at me, and quickly put his arm around my shoulders, took my other hand in his and, pulling me to him tightly, whispered: ‘Remember what we said, sweetheart. She isn’t there any more, Jess. What was Beth has gone. Listen to me!’
I nodded silently, and he gently let go as I tried not to think that I knew she was wearing her pjs and dressing gown, and Rabbit – which she’d taken to bed with her every night since she was ten months old – was tucked carefully in the crook of her arm. In that box.
It’s not her. She’s not there. I repeated it over and over in my head, mantra-like. She’s gone. She has gone…
I closed my eyes and swallowed, but was unable to stop myself imagining her falling, in slow motion, from the top of the wooden frame in the school playground. For just a brief moment, her small body in mid-air after her stiff, cold fingers lost their grip. The coroner had ruled Accidental Death. The post-mortem had confirmed Simon was right; Beth had died instantly.
Why didn’t I go back and give her the gloves?
Never mind the gloves, why didn’t I take her home when I knew Louise and Simon were in his office talking about us?
And I’d wanted to take her home after that woman told me God loved her, and I saw, I SAW what was going to happen! Why didn’t I just do it then?
The priest kindly welcomed us and began to talk about Beth, but as he’d never met her, he started using platitudes like ‘the sound of water over stones being the everlasting voice of our children, who will live on for ever’. I tried to concentrate instead on the fact that Beth had loved this building. I’d once remarked to her, while we were lighting a candle for Mum, that being in the cathedral made me feel peaceful. She had turned to me and said simply: ‘It makes me feel beautiful in my heart.’
I smiled suddenly, through tears. What an amazing thing for a child of five to say. She was so perfect.
I must have zoned out then, or my brain simply couldn’t process what was actually happening because, although I was dimly aware of more singing, and talking, somehow the next moment I looked up, Dad was bravely getting to his feet, clutching a piece of paper, and the service was almost over. I tried to send him silent encouragement. What man should have to speak at his granddaughter’s funeral?
He stood in front of what I would later be told was some three hundred people, and addressed my question immediately. ‘When someone dies at such a young age, and so suddenly, it’s hard to see how a service like this might be in any way a celebration of a life well lived, but in the short time Beth was with us, she blessed every day with her love. She was a very kind little girl, sensitive to the well-being of others. She loved her mummy and daddy with her whole heart. She had recently settled well into school life, and looked forward to going every day. Beth loved drawing – as you will see from the front of your order of service; she did that beautiful rainbow – and some of her other favourite things were cake, hot chocolate, fairies, playing with her friends, her grandparents, balloons and bubbles, coming home after being away, her bedroom, dressing up and playing in her garden. She didn’t like wearing trousers, hand dryers, mashed potato, or swimming without goggles – but that’s genuinely about it. How fantastic is that? What a happy girl she was, and what a wonderful life she had. She was a blessing in the truest sense, and our hearts are breaking that she is gone.’
The sound of sobs and sniffing was growing louder, and I had to stare at the floor intently to try and drown it out. I looked up and blinked, and Ben placed a hand on my arm to steady me.
‘I consider myself fortunate to have a strong sense of faith,’ continued Dad, ‘but while I have no doubt that God has Beth in his loving arms, we, of course, only long for her still to be in ours. How painful the inadequacy of only being able to hold someone in your heart can be.’ Dad folded his scrap of paper. ‘Good night, my darling. Sleep tight, and God bless you.’
Then it was Ben’s turn. I swallowed as he walked slowly towards the lectern, and then turned to face everyone. I had tried to dissuade him from speaking, but he had been insistent.
He coughed, and stared at the card in his hands in front of him. He said nothing, and as I, along with everyone else, waited, my heart began to thump. He couldn’t do it – of course he couldn’t. Oh, Ben… I turned to look pleadingly at his father, who hesitated, and began to stand, but then Ben lifted his gaze, and said simply: ‘Thank you so much for coming today for Beth. Jess and I are very grateful for your kindness. Some people have said to me that they can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child. I think what they really mean is that they can imagine it, and they don’t want to. It’s just too painful. Beth was five. Our beautiful, sweet, girl was five. It’s nothing – and she was everything.’ He paused for a moment, and tried to steady his voice. ‘I’m not the best with words and I could never say anything that could make sense of this anyway. Instead, I want to talk about Beth herself. I want to think about the sound of her laughing, her smile, how happy she was at the end of every day as she snuggled into bed, how kind and gentle she was, how generous she was with her love. I want to say how lucky I feel to have been her dad. She was, and always will be, our inspiration. Jess and I are so privileged to have been her parents, and every single day that we had with her was a blessing.’ I heard the tremble in his voice, and I couldn’t look at him. ‘Thank you. Beth, for being ours. And for being you. As you would say, I love you billions and billions, and that’s a very big number. I have a notebook at home of all the things that Beth said as she was growing up – the kind of stuff you write down about your kids because you don’t want to forget they said it… funny comments, words they mispronounced… you know the sort of thing. It doesn’t feel real that the entries have stopped, and that she won’t create more pages, but for now, I want to tell you one of them.
‘Jess and I had taken Beth to the seaside on holiday last year, and we’d had an awesome day of her riding her bike on the front and having a picnic on the beach. I said to Beth at bedtime: “My best bit of today was eating ice cream.” And she said: “My best bit was having fun with you.”’ Ben’s voice finally cracked. ‘That’s it. Everything, right there. My best bit has been having fun with you too, my sweetheart. It will be my best bit forever.’
* * *